An Ordinary Man

Dear reader. I ask you now to imagine the most stereotypical man you have ever encountered. Every day this man has the same routine, every day he eats the same meals, does things at the same times, like that one guy you saw that one time in that movie that you don't really remember, but was kinda good, you're pretty sure. Now make him not an actor. And make him real. Put him in a house at 471 Hillsdale Road, in Lockwood, Ohio. And give him a name. How about James Richard Wilson. That's pretty stereotypical, right? Would you like to know about him, my dear reader? Well, this is a day in the life of James. This is every day in the life of James.

His day started as usual. He woke up at 5:22, ate breakfast (at 6:30), walked to the train station, arrived at 7:45, and took the A train into the city to his work at the bank. Just like every day, this was his normal routine. At precisely 9:30, he sat in his spinny chair behind the counter, and did paperwork he would never understand the reason for. At 11:57 on the dot, he got up, stretched his legs, and walked to the break room. He retrieved his cold leftover grilled chicken from the night before, just like he did every day, and sat down in the far plastic chair by the east window, for he never sat anywhere else. He opened the tupperware and started eating the bland, unseasoned chicken, and stared out the window, pondering his existence and asking himself what it would take for him to feel. Afterwards he returned to his desk and spinny chair, and did more unimportant paperwork. At 5:02 James left the building and walked down the street to the train station.

This was just like any other day. Uneventful, unmemorable, a day that wouldn't matter when he looked back.

James took the A train home, just like always. He walked home from the station. It was raining, so he got out his umbrella. It didn't ruin his mood though. At this point, he was basically numb to emotion, no matter how hard he tried to feel anything. His life was so uneventful that nothing mattered anymore. But that didn't affect him. Nothing did. As per usual.

He unlocked the door to number 471, and turned on the light in the foyer. He put his bag down, and walked to the kitchen, where he put some bread in the toaster. Just like every night. He got out some salad from his fridge, made himself a cup of espresso, and started eating. It was 6:24.

James put his dishes in the sink, like he did each night, at 6:48 on the dot. He went into his bedroom, and put on something a little more comfortable. Some black sweatpants and a t-shirt, just like always. He watched some television to relax, and then, at 8:32, he went for a walk.

The route he always went was to walk through the backroads behind Hillsdale Road. Today, nothing changed. Across the street around 8:56, he spotted a young man who couldn't have been more than 23 years old, walking hand in hand with another guy, presumably in the same age range. James steeled himself. After all, as soon as he bumped into another soul, he struck. Just like always.

James slid his small revolver out of his pocket, fully loaded with six bullets. With a bang, that six went down to four. It only took one shot. It always did. James never missed his mark. He didn't kill to end lives, he killed in the hopes that one day he might feel something. Anything. But he still didn't. Nothing changed. Like usual.

He continued the route, unfazed, because after all, this was his nightly routine. Sometimes there was only one victim, sometimes more, but there was always someone. James had learned very early in his life that you can do almost anything as long as nobody else knows. Nobody else was encountered that night, so James returned home, washed the blood off of his hands and went to sleep peacefully, at 9:25. Just like always.

That night, he dreamt of a sea of blood, with him standing within it, like Moses, but instead of fish in the sea, it was bodies. There were so many bodies. Some were floating, others had sunk, and some had even fully decomposed, leaving nothing but a bloody skeleton, floating in the waves. He looked up, but instead of sky, all James could see were faces. Sinister, grinning faces. The faces of every single person that had met their demise to his revolver, whom he had affectionately named Henry.

James could remember everyone. Every single last person who he had killed. But that didn't affect him, for this was just an ordinary dream. It hadn't affected him in the moment, so why should it now?

Then, in the dream, like always, James would be rising out of the sea of blood towards the wicked faces, and just as suddenly as the faces' lives had ended, James fell into the sea beneath him. Now, one may think that a sea of blood would be no different than one of water, and they would be correct if not for the density, however, a sea of blood is just as merciless. James was pulled under the waves, crashing into the corpses surrounding him. After a minute of torturous drowning, James' vision went black, and he woke up with a start.

It was 5:22 AM. Just like usual.